


ça c'est ma dope

by catmanu



Category: Men's Football RPF, Political RPF, Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex to Music, blue hair don't care, griezmanu, shamelessly objectifying beautiful french men, stealth hotel room encounters, trashy playlists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-31 13:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmanu/pseuds/catmanu
Summary: Emmanuel laughed. "You’re probably one of very few people who’d come to a scheduled meeting with his president dressed so informally."Antoine shrugged and reached under his shirt to scratch his stomach, showing off its flat, toned nature in the process.  "Maybe that’s why you like me, Mr. President."He had a point.





	ça c'est ma dope

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. Antoine doesn't have blue hair these days. But we're going to pretend he does, for Reasons. Enjoy.
> 
> We're also going to skip over the details of how they've arranged their rendezvous. That's for another fic.
> 
> This just...happened. It wasn't supposed to be this long, but Griezmanu took the wheel.
> 
> If you haven't encountered his [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xmb9HSTLqDfVslK0ZgJtC), it's truly some of the best-cultivated trash out there, just sayin'.

It was hard to focus on lying on the hotel suite bed reading while listening for the keycard to slip into the slot, so hard that he stopped trying, but when the sound finally came he cleared his throat and stared intently at a page.

The cherub and all his aquamarine curls appeared, kicking his sandals into a corner.

“Uh, hey.”

And he tried again. 

“Hey, Mr. President. What’s up?”

Emmanuel lifted his eyes from the book. He’d arrived in red basketball shorts and a white shirt, shortsleeved so it flaunted that arm full of ink that was either an insult to high art or on a level of low art so advanced it had yet to be equaled. Emmanuel really couldn’t tell which. Staring hard at photos from the internet only seemed to confuse him further.

“Not much, really. I’m just waiting here for someone. They say he looks like Cupid, but he aims with his foot instead of a bow.”

Antoine twirled around slowly. “Here I am.” 

Emmanuel laughed. “You’re probably one of very few people who’d come to a scheduled meeting with his president dressed so informally.” 

Antoine shrugged and reached under his shirt to scratch his stomach, showing off its flat, toned nature in the process. “Maybe that’s why you like me, Mr. President.”

He had a point.

“But you know if it really was formal I’d wear a suit, you’ve seen it…and it’s not like sneaking into your hotel room is formal…Unless we get room service and have a fancy dinner? Maybe? Please?”

Emmanuel ran his hand through his hair. It would be running through that wild aquamarine fluff in front of him soon enough. “We’re here to do something, right? We can change plans, I’d love to eat a fancy dinner with you if that’s what you’d prefer, but we only have time for one thing this afternoon.”

“Sucks. What are you reading?” Antoine squinted at the book. “ _The Garden of Forking Paths_ , by Jorge Luis Borges?” All the years in Spain meant his tongue did rather melodious things with the Spanish name. It had a certain effect on Emmanuel, and he put the book down on the front of his pants still opened up to the page he was on, to preserve a little dignity. “Is it good?”

“I think so. Want to read with me?” 

The mattress dipped underneath him without warning as his football star jumped aggressively onto the bed. His aim in all things was perfect; his curly head wound up exactly next to Emmanuel’s on the pillow, without any elbows or feet jabbing him. “Maybe, but I mean, I heard we only have time for one thing, Mr. President.” 

“You don’t have to call me—” The kiss that landed on his lips didn’t exactly start out as consensual, but sometimes it was better that way. He flung Borges out of the way _(sorry!)_ and grabbed a handful of blue curls to guide Antoine on top of him. Now the scene had been set, the prelude over, and it was time to enjoy and let whatever happened happen. Antoine was not a sloppy kisser, but a reverent one; his attire hadn’t reflected the fact that he was meeting with his president, but his mouth certainly did. He wrapped his forearms around Emmanuel’s head and cradled it in his hands.

“You should stop cutting your hair…” he mumbled against Emmanuel’s lips, “…wanna pull it…”

Emmanuel nudged the talkative tongue with his own and felt him shiver just a little. He lifted his legs up as they kissed, wrapping them around Antoine to bring them closer. The ferocity of their lips grew. They were getting hard together, against each other, their hips already finding a rhythm so early on in the afternoon. He slid his hand underneath Antoine’s shirt and tickled his warm, smooth back. Antoine giggled softly and pressed his growing erection further against Emmanuel’s.

Now Emmanuel ran his hand down the muscular back on top of him and dipped his fingers below the waistband of Antoine’s shorts. He paused. Not his lips, of course, but the rest of him. Here it was, a Borgesian forking path of his own stretched out ahead of him. He could make the gauche move, the hungry move, and plunge his hand down the front of Antoine’s shorts to grab his cock and tug at it firmly, savagely, till it was leaking over his fingers and Antoine was gasping _please—Mr. President—Emmanuel—please—Mr. Emmanuel—_ forgetting what to call the guy doing this to him, even.

There was a slower and more complex route, and they had more time than Antoine thought they had, so he crept his hand up, not down, until it rested lightly on one perfect well-toned cheek. 

“Have you showered?” he asked the cherub who was now lightly nipping his neck. The question wasn’t really necessary, because with his nose pressed against Antoine’s stubbly skin and those arms still cradling his head, he could smell fresh deodorant and some kind of masculine, yet sweet, body wash. But, still. One had to ask these things for posterity.

“I _always_ do before I see you,” Antoine responded. His words vibrated against the most sensitive part of Emmanuel’s neck, and he arched against the aquamarine angel and slid the tip of his finger inside him.

“Do you still like this?”

Antoine twitched and shuddered a little against him. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you certain, Antoine? I’m just playing with you right now, but we can do something else instead, we can do anything you’d like.” He twirled his finger to push it in just a little further; his champion, his star, whimpered in a crescendo against his neck. In so many ways Antoine barely knew him, they barely knew each other, but he trusted him so implicitly, and that thought made him blurt out something from the heart. “Really, we can probably get something to eat afterward if you want.”

“Mr. President...I’m sure.” Antoine made quick work of the buttons of his shirt and slipped his hands inside. Emmanuel gasped as fingers softly pinched his nipples. This was a delight he really hadn’t expected. Antoine was bold, he was bold, he was shy and bold all at once, and never self-conscious about any of it.

“…But I get to choose how, okay?”

“ _Please_ don’t stop,” Emmanuel breathed, clutching at one of his wrists. Antoine’s fingers kept going, sending shivers through him. “Do you mean…the position? Of course you can choose.” He stroked the soft aquamarine curls again with his free hand, scratching Antoine’s scalp gently as his finger twirled and wriggled inside him. “This will be our—”

“Th—third time.” Antoine’s eyelids flickered shut and he bit at his lip. 

“Third time. So I want you to be comfortable.” Their first time, his star had showed up on time to their meeting spot drunk, and he begged and begged and begged _please, Mr. President, I want…want you to fuck me like…like we’re making a gay porn or..._

_How much ‘gay porn’ have you seen?_

_’S none of your business…_

_Antoine, it’s not ethical to do anything like that with you if you’re drunk…You’re too drunk to give true consent._

And the warm, clammy hands grabbing his own, their distraught cherubic owner begging, _I’m only…like this right now ‘cause I would have been too afraid to ask otherwise..._

Well. Ethics were important, but real life wasn’t quite so black-and-white, and Emmanuel fucked him nearly sober, leaving bruises on the shoulders of his Venus on the shell. And that was the first time. 

And then there was their second time, and—

“I’ll be comfortable, don’t worry. What I really meant was...” He tossed his head to get his curls off his face. “Did you ever listen to music while you...you know?”

“While I what?”

“You know, this. Fucked.”

“You’re suddenly too shy to say that word in front of me?”

Antoine shrugged. The slight pink on his cheeks went well with the sea-foam of his hair. 

“Yes, I have, a few times. Probably not what you’ve listened to, though. Well, I shouldn’t assume.”

“That’s what I want. I want to choose our playlist.” He leapt up and jumped off the bed. Emmanuel instantly missed his weight, the firmness of his muscular legs against his own. “This place is pretty sweet, I don’t know if you realized, but they’ve got smart TVs and all that good shit.”

“They’ve got what now?” But Antoine was off on a millennial high already. 

“I figured it out last night, you can play Spotify through the TV. Let me just—” Emmanuel watched him pick up the remote and sit at the edge of the bed. The kind of shorts he was wearing couldn’t hide the bulge in them and he took an absolutely gleeful pleasure in the realization that he could cause that to happen to a Renaissance painting come to life. 

Emmanuel got up and sat behind him on the bed. He was interested in watching whatever magic he was working with the TV, mostly because he had a perfect vantage point. He rested his chin on Antoine’s shoulder and slid his hands underneath the soft white shirt again to scratch his back. He kept his nails short, but they could make an impact if he dragged them hard enough. He chose not to. Antoine’s body was somewhat public.

“Stop it, Mr. President, you’re distracting me,” Antoine said, fiddling with something on his phone. 

“How exactly am I distracting you?” Emmanuel asked.

Without looking up from playing with both his phone and the remote at once, Antoine replied. “I can feel your dick. You’re doing it on purpose.”

Emmanuel leaned harder against his back, rubbing insistently against his warmth. Half on purpose, yes, but half in spite of himself, too.

“You’re making me wanna touch it,” Antoine mumbled. 

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Be patient, Mr. President. I’m just getting our playlist set up—yessssssss, it worked!” He hooted and raised his hands in the air, sliding off the bed. The song that had started playing was not the kind of thing Emmanuel listened to. “I wanna see you bust down,” a man’s voice droned in English over a decent bass line and solid percussion. Emmanuel sighed. He had been right to assume.

“Antoine, what is this?” 

It’s good shit, that’s what.” Antoine pulled off his shirt, twirled it over his head for a moment, and spiked it onto the chair across the room. It was a personal showing of his post-goal exuberance. It was a sensory assault, that was what. 

“Come on, get undressed, Mr. President!” He hooked his thumb around the waistband of the red shorts and gently slid them down. His boxer briefs continued the sensory assault; they were printed with roses and sailor tattoos, and Emmanuel sincerely had no idea what to think of them. Other than that he wanted to rub his face against the erection that was distorting the printed rose petals, to kiss it, feel its warmth— 

_Speed it up, now slow that shit down_ , the monotonous voice requested (or was it was a demand? It was hard to tell) and Antoine turned around, singing along as he let his underwear fall to the floor. “Speed it up, now slow that shit down!” He wiggled those two perfect, pale globes in Emmanuel’s direction; it was immature as anything, it was unselfconscious to the extreme, it was joyous, and Emmanuel was completely transfixed. He didn’t even feel like a president. 

“Antoine. Look at me.” Antoine turned around again, displaying his big smile, his blue eyes shining like diamonds, his curls rumpled and his eager erection fully exposed at last. Emmanuel asked the universe to grant him strength. “Did you ever hear the word callipygian?”

“No, what’s that?” Antoine jumped back onto the bed. Now a woman had joined in. Half of what she was saying was American slang Emmanuel wasn’t familiar with but he got the overall meaning. She enjoyed men’s tongues, apparently. 

“It means...someone who’s got a great butt. Like yourself.” Antoine straddled him again, lowering his cock down to rub against the bulge straining against his pants. Emmanuel realized he still had his clothes on. That wouldn’t do. 

“Nah, that’s not a real word. You made that up.” 

“Would you like us to stop so we can look it up?”

“Why would they have a word for that?”

“Because people who look like you exist. Here, either help me with my pants, or get off me for a second.”

Antoine climbed off. Swaying his hips slightly in time to the song, which really did have a very seductive rhythm, he wrapped his hand around his cock and began to pump it. At the sight of this, Emmanuel fumbled embarrassingly with his belt.

“Stop that—no, _don’t_ start doing that. Be useful instead of distracting, get the lube out of my bag.”

Antoine grinned and did as he was told, but adjusted his hips so they now wiggled to the beat of the next song that had come on. It was in French, and significantly slower, and Emmanuel had the absurd thought: with a little music, Antoine would make a perfect nude hypnotist. 

Now that he was unclothed, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Antoine danced his way onto the bed, singing along. “ _Ça c’est ma dope, ça c’est ma dope, ma ville mon clan mon style mon flow, ça c’est ma dope…_ ” It was catchy, obnoxiously so. Emmanuel lubed his fingers—three, just in case—and worked two inside Antoine greedily. To say it was a tight fit would be an understatement. His poor angel...it was only their third time, after all.

Antoine closed his eyes. “Oh—fill me up, Mr. President—”

“No one’s filming this. Don’t be vulgar.” Emmanuel didn’t want a preview of whatever pornography Antoine and his teammates watched while on the road. He watched the cherubic mouth gape as the perfect body atop him adjusted to his fingers, squeezing around them, shivering.

He began stretching his beautiful champion, fucking him slowly, keeping an eye on his face. 

“Do you like this, my angel?” Antoine was squirming, swiveling his hips along with the music.

“Yeah,” he said, gasping a little. “Yeah, I do, I—Are you going to find my—”

“Of course. Lean forward.” _Ça c’est ma dope, ça c’est ma dope._ “Relax, Antoine, that’s it, that’s—”

His angel’s hand suddenly closed around both their cocks, rubbing them together in his fist, and he briefly lost all conscious thought. Antoine was so warm. So smooth. “You’re very bold with your president,” he managed.

“Well, we’re doing this, right? So we might as well...do it.”

Simplistic logic was the hardest to refute. They _were_ doing this. So they might as well do it.

The song changed to something in Spanish and with Antoine’s hand finding a rhythm, working them against each other, it was hard to concentrate, hard to keep little satisfied noises from escaping his mouth. He wished he could kiss his curly cherub, his aquamarine Antoine, to moan against him, but instead he found the spot Antoine had been too shy to name. He pressed his fingertips against it. Antoine gasped sharply. “Ohhh...” he groaned, a bit too loud but endearingly so. “I still can’t believe I like...have something like that inside me...”

“Shhhhhh. Antoine. For the love of God. Do not say things like that.” He laid a finger on his plump pink lips. “I’ll go soft, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“I’ll fix that for you,” Antoine whispered, and moved his hand faster, running his thumb over the head of Emmanuel’s cock. He lacked some finesse, but as an athlete, he had drive and motivation in abundance. Emmanuel made the conscious decision to stop worrying about making noise. He worked Antoine’s prostate gently; he felt his cock start leaking as it rubbed against his own. Antoine leaned farther forward, his blue curls falling on Emmanuel’s face. Emmanuel took deep breaths, breathing in the scent of him. 

“More...more...”

“More what?”

“I want another finger...please...” 

His third finger barely fit, but Antoine didn’t seem to care. “Yesss,” he hissed. “Thank you, Mr. President.” And they rocked back and forth, back and forth, the pulsing beat of one song becoming the pulsing beat of the next, until his angel moaned, “Let me ride you...please...I want to sit on your...”

“Yes?” He ran his free fingers over Antoine’s lips. “You’re going to put on a show for me?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“How could I say no to you?” Emmanuel reached for the lube again, applying it to the necessary places, and looked carefully at Antoine’s bright blue eyes and pink lips for any signs of doubt. There were none.

“How do I do this…” Antoine breathed, hovering above Emmanuel’s cock. Emmanuel guided it into position.

“Just relax, just breathe. I’ll do most of the work, okay? Start sitting down…I’m going to push a little…” He wrapped his free hand around Antoine’s hip. His soft skin was already sweat-slick, and he mouthed a silent _ow, ffffffffuuck_ as the head of Emmanuel’s cock pushed into the barely-yielding warmth. For a second, Emmanuel was worried. But he knew the stats. Antoine rarely missed games due to injury. He was supernaturally resilient. He’d survive this.

He grabbed a fistful of blue ringlets and pulled Antoine down for a kiss, giving him a moment to settle. The reverence from before was gone; their lips came together frantically. Their teeth collided. It should have been unpleasant, but it made Emmanuel feel alive.

His whole world of suits and ties and philosophers and decorum—it was gone with one sloppy, needy kiss.

A woman was singing in Spanish again, something even more poetic than Borges, no doubt, from the way Antoine began to move. “Mr. President…” he whimpered, gliding up, sliding down and clenching tightly around him, gliding up, sliding back down, and Emmanuel gripped the base of his cock and pushed harder so he could enjoy every possible inch of Antoine’s heat. If it hurt, it clearly didn’t matter to the beautiful man on top of him.

This was new, having the adult version of a Raphael cherub riding him like this. Physical, sensual pleasure was all the same after a point; the visuals were what set experiences apart. All Antoine was missing was a set of wings, but from the way his muscles worked in unison to create the perfect friction around Emmanuel inside him, perhaps wings were unnecessary.

The tip of his cock, red and swollen from the stimulation, slapped against Emmanuel’s stomach, leaving little drops of moisture behind. Emmanuel put his thumbs to work, gently massaging his angel’s solid thighs and strong stomach. He traced his fingernails over Antoine’s chest, down and around his belly button, up and down through the soft hairs on his thighs. He stared up at the aquamarine halo; Raphael and his fellow artists had never found a way to mix such a color, poor things. It felt nice to be this awestruck; it felt just as nice to see a similar look in the bright eyes above him.

Antoine broke Emmanuel’s Renaissance-themed reverie by spitting wildly into his palm and beginning to stroke himself, firmly, passionately. Emmanuel focused instead on his garish knuckle tattoos, but only for a moment. His arm was where all his religious imagery was, and it was moving so fast already that the rosary and Christ the Redeemer and whatever the hell else was on there were just a blur that made the unholy act holy. 

Antoine kept his hand going, stroking his cock with a surprising amount of endurance; he was biting at his soft lips and silently mouthing things, but he didn’t seem in danger of losing control of himself. Emmanuel wrapped his hands around his waist and pulled him forward, changing the angle of his cock, driving it into one particular spot on a mission as Antoine circled on top of him.

Antoine’s free hand grabbed desperately at the air, finding Emmanuel’s wrist and squeezing it. “ _Fuck!_ Mr. President…”

“Was that it?” Emmanuel asked. Of course that was it. He curled his fingers into the blanket underneath him and tugged for some kind of support as Antoine continued to ride. Around his cock was the snuggest, warmest feeling he could imagine, and before his eyes was a smooth, sculpted chest and an ocean of aquamarine ringlets. The sweat beading on his scalp just made him look even more like he came out of the sea.

Antoine rocked against him, circling his hips. “That’s it that’s it,” he panted. “That’s it, that’s it—”

“ _Shhhh_ ,” Emmanuel said, but with little conviction this time; they were both gasping for air, moving against each other, suddenly locked into a rhythm as tight as the music playing underneath their primal little sounds.

“Mr. President—I’m gonna c—” 

“Then do it, little angel.”

The whole bed seemed to be moving in time to the music, and his cherub threw his head back, his aquamarine curls bouncing, and gave a high-pitched moan. Emmanuel felt warmth splash onto his stomach and that was enough to push him over the edge as well. A last burst of logic reminded him that pulling out would mean easier cleanup in their limited time together, so he pulled sharply out of the tight heat of Antoine that was clenching madly around him. He grabbed Antoine’s waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, and feeling him rocking and shuddering in his arms was enough to make him let go of himself entirely.

Suddenly Antoine was collapsing on top of him, breathlessly, skin making a sticky sound as it met skin. He was covered in sweat, but Emmanuel could still make out hints of the body wash as he buried his nose in the Renaissance curls again.

“Oh, ughhh,” Antoine said. The music was still pulsing, a slow, sinful, driving beat, and it made Emmanuel feel like they should do it all over again. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured in Emmanuel’s ear. “It's kind of disgusting.”

For a few moments they breathed erratically against each other, their chests heaving at different rhythms, coming down from the pleasure they’d shared. Their breaths slowly steadied.

“I’m surprised you’re bothered by a bit of a mess,” Emmanuel said. He brushed some sweaty curls out of the way and scratched Antoine behind the ear. “You guys are always sweating, getting rained on...I’ve seen photos of you bleeding...”

“You stalker,” Antoine said, and punched Emmanuel softly on the arm. Locker-room camaraderie. He was included. “It feels different, okay? It’s a different texture or something...I’m going to get a towel.”

He got off the bed and stopped halfway to the bathroom, staring at Emmanuel.

“I can’t believe my president _stalks_ me.”

And stalker and star both grinned.

His angel returned with a towel to wipe them both down, and then curled up next to him in bed again. Emmanuel found himself enjoying their similar heights. It was relaxing despite the music; he felt a complete lack of pressure. He had been prepared for the presidency’s perks, but to be curled around this living artwork of a World Cup champion, playing softly with his ringlets, was so thrilling he still couldn’t believe he’d earned the privilege.

“I should have brought my Xbox down,” Antoine said. “That would’ve been pretty cool.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t.”

“You should try new things. You’re missing out. Maybe you’d like Red Dead Redemption if you played a bit.”

“You’re new enough for me,” Emmanuel said, and took advantage of the opportunity to punch _him_ in the arm. “I think we have time for our luxurious feast after all. What do you think?”

“Ooooh, yessss.” 

Emmanuel reached for the menu that had been left on the bedside table and they both sat up, leaning against the headboard. He was half-expecting Antoine to order the most exorbitant things on the menu, but his finger landed on dessert.

“Hmmm, crepes...with Nutella, strawberries, and powdered sugar? That’s what you want?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Then that’s what we’ll have, my angel.” The angel in question was running his thumb over the trail of hair below Emmanuel’s navel, tickling him a bit, and Emmanuel didn’t think he’d ever felt this _young_ in his life. “Let me make the call. Would you _please_ turn the music off?”

And after, after crepes had been eaten and powdered sugar kissed off lips, after their hands lingered on each other’s bodies longingly for a last moment, Emmanuel wistfully and finally restraining himself from cupping the glorious muscles and stroking the soft curls, after promises to meet up again when their schedules allowed, and after his cherub, fully clothed again, blew him a kiss and limped more than slightly out of the suite, Emmanuel noticed a few strands of aquamarine hair on the sheets next to him. 

He picked them up gently and placed them on the bedside table next to his phone, so he remembered to take them with him when he left. To hide the evidence, of course. There was no other reason.

He made a note in his phone to get in touch with Antoine later on and ask him what was on his playlist.


End file.
